


Put Up the Good Fight

by howler32557038



Series: The Simple Life [9]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Arguing, Baseball, Established Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Established Relationship, Gen, Getting in Trouble, M/M, Mpreg, Parenthood, Post Mpreg, Post-The Simple Life, Pre-Something Good Can Work, Pregnancy, hot dogs, pregnancy reveal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-11
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2019-06-25 23:51:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15651468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howler32557038/pseuds/howler32557038
Summary: Steve and Bucky's little boy has just learned that there's going to be a new baby in the house. He takes it pretty well, until he doesn't.In the meantime, Bucky reminisces on the challenges and joys of having raised his son at the New Avengers Facility, argues with Steve, and then rescues him from an angrily-thrown baseball that could very well have broken his nose. Sam has to help Steve work through some serious anxiety about disciplining his child.





	Put Up the Good Fight

Steve is thinking about kissing Bucky even before he wakes up. The moment his dream slips away and he enters a purgatory of half-wakefulness, he remembers how they’d fallen asleep, facing one another on a single pillow, their legs entwined, with Steve’s thigh trapped between Bucky’s knees and his hand resting low on his side. The touch is full of anticipation, even though Bucky doesn’t look any different yet. He can feel that his body is still in relatively the same position. He can feel the weight of Bucky’s left leg on his right, feel the rise and fall of his ribcage under his hand as he breathes. He can lean forward and find Bucky’s lips without ever opening his eyes.

But instead of kissing Bucky, Steve knocks heads with his son.

Lincoln doesn’t exactly wake up — just whines when his forehead gets bumped and swats blindly at Steve’s face to push him away, jamming his fingers against his dad’s mouth. Steve should have known he’d be there when they woke up.

Lincoln had climbed over Bucky at some point during their nap and wedged himself into the space in between his parents, tucked tightly against Bucky’s chest and holding his prosthetic over his own shoulder like a blanket, gripping two of Bucky’s metal fingers possessively until the need to slap Steve in the face arose. His head is nestled underneath Bucky’s chin, and there’s a damp spot on their pillow from his open mouth. His other hand is hugged to his own chest, shoved haphazardly into his baseball mitt. Besides a pair of Mickey Mouse underwear, the baseball mitt is all he’s wearing. At least Bucky has managed to slip a pair of sweats on.

Steve holds his breath so that he won’t laugh. 

God, raising a son is bizarre. 

It’s also the greatest undertaking of his life so far, and it’s unimaginably difficult in every unexpected way, while other skills are natural and intuitive that he’d thought would be impossible to master. He’s not always sure he’s doing it right. Sometimes, he  _ positive _ he’s not doing it right. But then the realization washes over him all over again: he and Bucky are raising a son together, and their son is smart, healthy, and happy.

And somehow,  _ this _ is the best part — the times when Lincoln crawls into bed with them, or into their laps, the moments when he throws his arms around them and holds on tight, grinning and giggling, and every time he brings them books and drawings and tells them bad jokes just because he wants to share something he cares about with his parents. 

Loving Lincoln has been effortless since the beginning. Even when he runs around the Facility half-dressed or begs for mashed potatoes and pizza for breakfast, or when he slides down the stairwells on Steve’s shield and colors on their memos and mission reports. When he comes and asks them every question he can think of the moment they shut the bathroom door. When he takes his stolen half out of the middle of the bed, wearing a baseball glove and his underwear, with a few guilty Oreo crumbs on his face. It was impossible for them not to love Lincoln. The fact that Lincoln seems to love them back, though — that’s the miracle.

Steve shifts higher on the bed, careful not to wake his son up just yet, and catches Bucky’s sleepy gaze. Bucky must have woken up when he’d heard Steve’s head collide with Lincoln’s. Bucky tips his chin up with a cheeky smirk, issuing a silent, mutual challenge, and Steve laughs, leans forward, cranes his neck to reach him, and they struggle for a precarious kiss, racing against the inevitable interruption. Their lips meet only briefly. They both pull back to glance down at their son — still asleep — and share a triumphant smile. Bucky kisses him again, but it’s Steve who refuses to let it end — Bucky who presses closer, tilting his head to deepen the kiss, and Steve who lets a happy sigh slip from his throat.

That’s all it takes. Lincoln stretches out suddenly, uncurling, asserting his rightful place between them and breaking their kiss with the top of his head. Steve and Bucky exchange rueful smiles from either side of him; they had known they wouldn’t have long. They never do.

“Stop it,” Lincoln demands, still asleep and slurring the words unintelligibly.

“Lincoln, you never let me kiss your papa,” Steve complains with an exaggerated frown.

“Uh-uh, because...I hate it,” he mumbles. “I do  _ not _ like it when you do that.”

Steve’s jaw drops in a good-natured display of offense, but Bucky squeezes Lincoln closer to his chest, trapping him in a hug. “Don’t be mean. What if I wanted a kiss, huh?”

“No. I can kiss you guys.”

“What? We can’t kiss each other?”

“Well, you can, except you do it wrong.”

Now Bucky’s jaw drops. “You don’t even know  _ how _ to kiss, kid, I don’t wanna hear it.”

“No. You lick each other’s mouths sometimes!”

“Well...that’s how people who are in love kiss each other,” Steve provides, hearing the ridiculousness of that statement the moment he says it aloud.

“Whoever decided that is dumb and they are  _ really _ weird, because there really shouldn’t be licking, because you shouldn’t just get your spit in another person’s mouth,  _ ever.  _ You can kiss on the cheeks, but you guys got to be careful with getting spit in your mouths.”

“Oh, just cheeks,” Bucky nods sincerely. “That’s what we’re allowed to do, huh?”

“Yeah.”

Steve sees Bucky tighten his hold on Lincoln, subtly pinning his arms to his sides. He sees that rare glint of playfulness in his eye as he ruffles Lincoln’s hair, then leaves his hand on his head, holding it in place. “So you make the rules, now?”

Lincoln opens his eyes and grins nervously, suddenly realizing that he’s trapped, and at the mercy of not just one, but  _ both _ of his parents. “Well, just—”

“No licking?”

“Papa, don’t—”

“You hear this, Steve? He says no licking—”

Steve shakes his head. “We better teach him a lesson.”

“No!”

“Get him, Buck.”

“Papa!” Lincoln giggles weakly as Bucky leans over him threateningly. “No — Dad, help,  _ help,  _ no, no—!” And his pleas deteriorate into screaming laughter and futile thrashing when Bucky leans down and drags his tongue messily up the side of his face like an oversized dog, from his cheek right up to his eye.

Lincoln can no longer speak or breathe for laughing. Bucky looks pretty pleased with himself.

Steve can’t stand to be left out anymore. “Oh, you’re going  _ easy _ on him,” he scolds, sitting up. “Come on, Buck, you’ve got to get more spit in your mouth first. And get it in his hair.” He demonstrates all of this, and Lincoln’s eyes stream tears down his red cheeks.

“Oh, wait, like this?” Bucky tries it.

Steve and Bucky are both weak with laughter now, watching Lincoln struggle against Bucky’s embrace, trying desperately to free his head. His tongue is poking out of his mouth, ready to get Steve back if only he could reach. Bucky lets Steve back away and escape, then releases his son with hard thump on the backside.

“Lincoln, you want me to go start up the grill?”

Steve grins. To Lincoln,  _ grill _ is a magic word. That’s  _ you’ve won a million dollars _ to this kid. If he’s honest with himself, he’s just as thrilled as his son is: Bucky may not be able to bake to save his life, but he’s got Steve solidly beat on a few things: scrambled eggs, barbecue, fried chicken, and anything that can be grilled. (But not pancakes — Steve makes better pancakes than him and he knows it, and Bucky can go to hell with his asinine “tips” and his dick-headed “critiques.”)

“Yeah!” Lincoln throws himself over Steve’s legs, shouting the word like a battle cry as he tumbles off their bed. “Then we can have hot dogs with our baseball.”

“I’m not grilling you a baseball,” Bucky says with a straight face.

“But you  _ said _ we could play baseball, Papa.”

Bucky sighs. “It was — I was joking. Never mind.”

“I need hot dogs!”

“I know you need hot dogs, baby. Steve, what do you want?”

Steve, mid-stretch, gives Bucky a look that he hopes indicates what a dumb question that was. “Hot dogs, Bucky, come on.”

“I’m not starting up the grill to cook  _ one thing,  _ Steve.”

“Grill some chicken breasts and the rest of that corn, then. The corn’s probably still good.”

“Chicken!” Lincoln screams. “And corn!”

“Well, I wanted a burger, so I guess I’m doing burgers, too—”

“I’m going to put a hot dog on my burger so that my hot dog has cheese on it!”

“Might as well do something with that eggplant before it—”

“Papa — no, I don’t eat that, I can’t.”

“It’s not  _ for _ you, you little garbage disposal.”

“It’s exactly like a sponge that got dried out.”

_ “I  _ will eat the eggplant, Lincoln, Jesus. I’ll make you some carrots or something.”

“I actually just want my cheese and hot dog burger.”

“Carrots with a bunch of butter.”

“Okay, I’ll eat that. Are we still going to play baseball? You guys said we could.”

_ “Yes,  _ now go wash your face off,” Bucky orders sternly, throwing a pillow at him. It thumps Lincoln right in the chest. “You’ve got  _ spit _ all over you, Lincoln, it’s disgusting.”

“Ew, yuck, he’s covered in it,” Steve chimes in. “Where’d that come from?”

_ “You  _ guys did—!”

“Go clean yourself up this instant, Lincoln Samuel.”

Lincoln scrambles for the door, knowing that the sooner his face is washed, the sooner they’ll be outside and eating. Still, he takes the time to shout, “That’s  _ your _ fault! You got spit all over me!”

“And don’t bother coming out of that bathroom ‘til that hair is combed,” Bucky calls after him, now deadly serious. “Or  _ I’ll _ comb it for you.”

“No! I can do it myself!”

“Why’d he taste like Oreos?” Bucky asks softly.

“Had a bunch of Oreo crumbs on his face,” Steve smiles, then bows his head, speaking through a guilty chuckle. “Should have warned you before I just let you lick the old food crumbs off his face, probably.”

“It’s fine. He’s thrown up in my  _ mouth,  _ Steve. Who cares.”

As soon as the bathroom door has slammed, Steve is on his feet, putting their messy bed back in order. He’s just as eager as Lincoln is to start their evening together, and he’s hungry and positively high on joy from seeing Bucky and Lincoln playing around like a pair of idiots. 

Granted, making the bed would be a little easier if Bucky would get out of it. So far, he shows no sign of moving. Steve leans over him, planting his hands on either side of Bucky’s shoulders and staring down at him appraisingly.

“You sure you’re up to this?”

“Yeah,” Bucky answers instantly. He sounds almost overly enthusiastic, but Steve can hear exhaustion fraying the edges of his voice. “I’m eight weeks pregnant, Steve, I’m not crippled.”

“Then move, so I can make the damn bed.”

“Ugh. Shit.”

“See? You _ are _ tired.”

“No, I’m not.”

“And you’ve got a fractured cheekbone and you just checked in from a long op,  _ and _ you’re jet-lagged.”

_ “And _ I’m old, plus I’m a shell-shocked vet, and I got a bad back and one arm,” Bucky snaps, listing it all inconsequentially. “Fuck off.”

“Well, move.”

“Pick me up.”

Bucky’s whining request was almost certainly insincere, but Steve will be damned if he’s going to miss any opportunity to do this: he used to try to pick him up when they were kids, when Bucky had outweighed him by sixty pounds, locking his arms around his waist and pushing himself up on shaking thighs that were no bigger than Bucky’s arm. He had always gloated about it, too, when he’d get Bucky’s feet an inch off the ground. And Bucky had always indulged his pride. 

(The thought briefly skitters through his mind that Bucky looks so much the same now as he had back then — more muscular, but that same beautiful brown hair, cut short again and falling in gentle waves around his temples, with a five o’clock shadow framing his jaw and happiness filling his eyes.)

Now, he doesn’t have to struggle, nor does he have to endure stiff, sore muscles the next day. He just leans over the bed, grabs Bucky’s hand, grips his thigh and stands up with Bucky balanced over his shoulder like a two-hundred pound sack of potatoes.

Bucky’s voice sounds unimpressed — or at least  _ unsurprised,  _ which comes as something of a disappointment to Steve _ —  _ but he can also feel the quiet laughter in Bucky’s chest against his back. “Should have known you’d do it.”

Steve steadies Bucky’s body firmly against him with one arm wrapped securely around his thighs, and makes the bed one-handed, bending and leaning comfortably under the extra weight. Because  _ now _ he’s showing off a little. Because there’s no point at all in being enhanced if he doesn’t occasionally use his physical strength to sweep an attractive man off his feet.

Lincoln comes running back in a minute or two later, hair partially tamed and face still dripping wet, only to find his parents precariously balanced, one on top of the other. He looks a little perplexed, but seems to take it in stride.

“Why’s Daddy carrying you?”

“He’s just being weird, Lincoln. You ready to get the food together and go outside?”

“Yes! My face is clean, but it was — it was kind of your fault it was dirty, too.”

“Okay. You know you’re not wearing any clothes, right?”

“I lost my overalls. Like, they’re just gone and I really don’t see them anywhere.”

“They’re on the couch where you left 'em, you nudist,” Steve provides, sliding Bucky off his shoulder and setting him down gently. He turns around to get a look at his son and finds him staring expectantly back, eyes fixed longingly on Steve’s shoulder and holding a jealous little frown at bay. Steve snorts and bends forward, bringing his shoulder close enough to the ground that Lincoln can make it up if he jumps. “Oh, I’m sorry, buddy. Come on.”

And Lincoln clambers immediately onto Steve’s back, still not looking especially excited to be carried — just stoically satisfied to have his rightful spot returned to him.

* * *

 

As if their days aren't full enough, dinner always takes a few hours when the whole family is together. When they decide to grill, it has to be as well organized as any covert counter-offensive Steve and Bucky have ever run. Bucky halves the eggplants, peels the carrots, and butterflies the chicken breasts and throws them in a marinade. Steve patties out the burgers because the meat sticks in the joints of Bucky's prosthetic. Lincoln takes his sweet time getting the husks and silk off the corn, and still only gets half of it in the garbage can.

Bucky makes the first run down to the ground level, leaving Steve and Lincoln back at the apartment to pack up a cooler full of condiments and drinks and clean up the kitchen.

Six levels below the residential floor of the Facility, there’s a spacious lounge area with meeting rooms, a small gym they use for PT, and a little cafeteria for the second-tier team members who don’t have their own kitchens. Just outside, there’s a wide patio and outdoor seating and a communal grill, an inground pool nearby, and a path leading across the expansive lawn and out to the treeline, which follows the Facility’s perimeter all the way around, circling each building along the way.

Bucky steps out into the sunshine, barely feeling the throb in his cheek from the day-old fracture. Summer clothes make the temperature tolerable enough, and he plans to enjoy wearing every breezy, light tank he owns before he starts looking indecent in them again. His well-worn jeans are a little tight through the waist already, but he can just let them ride a little lower on his hips — he’s just thankful to know he’s not crazy. They  _ didn’t _ fit the same as they had last week, and there’s a good reason. He feels a little guilty — he had blamed Steve for shrinking them in the wash.

It’s about 2:30 in the afternoon now. The morning may be long gone, but the midday sun makes the grass look like there’s a golden sheen splashed across it, and the late-June heat is still tame enough to yield to every cool breeze that wanders across the lawn.

Bucky takes it all in as he makes his way out to the grill, giving a perfunctory smile to a few of the agents and staffers who’ve gathered around one of the tables after a jog as he passes by. One of them throws him a cheeky salute. His hands are occupied by a cookie sheet piled with foil-wrapped vegetables, so he calls over his shoulder to the girl, “At ease, I’m retired.” He’s admittedly a little pleased to hear the whole table laugh.

He sets the food down on the table at the far end of the patio and starts up the grill, already fantasizing about the smell of burgers and hot dogs and chicken, happily anticipating the clinging, pervasive scent of the fire that makes him think of MREs and taking off wet boots to finally warm up his feet at the end of a march.

His gaze wanders down the paved pathway, out and out and into the surrounding woods. He can hear the ambient whisper of it even from here — the foliage swaying and rustling, the calling birds, the little pools surrounding Lake Alice, and all the plants, growing and stretching gradually toward the sun. The thought of new things growing sends a momentary burst of adrenaline through him, and he has to bite back a grin, just in case those young agents are still looking.

Bucky knows every inch of that path like he knows the color of his son’s eyes: he used to run it every morning with Steve in the early months of his — of his  _ first _ pregnancy. And once he’d gotten too big and fatigue came on faster, Steve had walked with him.

Later, with Lincoln tucked into a sling, dozing against Steve’s chest and only seven days old, Bucky had made his way from the patio to the trees. He’d been tired when they got back to the Facility’s doors. Still bleeding and sore. But Steve had looked at him like he’d hung the moon, and he’d smiled. Just a few strides down and to the right of the trail, Bucky can see the little hill where he’d let Lincoln crawl one day. It had been the first time Lincoln had ever touched grass. Bucky hasn’t forgotten how wide his blue eyes had been, or the way Steve had laughed.

Bucky had pushed Lincoln in a stroller down that same path afterward, with or without Steve. He and Lincoln had watched the sunrises together, they’d seen falling snow and felt wind and chilly raindrops, heard frogs and crickets, laughed at squirrels and bees and butterflies. Once, Bucky had knelt down beside his son, both of them pointing wordlessly out toward the treeline, both silent with awe as a deer ventured briefly out of the woods. Bucky had felt like she’d come by just for him and Lincoln.

Lincoln had taken his first really good steps right here on this patio, clumsily putting one foot in front of the other, always on the verge of overbalancing, just barely making it from Steve’s steadying hands to Bucky’s waiting arms.

Bucky can’t believe it. It can’t be true, but somehow it is: he gets to do it all over again.

“Hey!”

Steve’s voice barely carries to Bucky’s ear — he’s still up on the sixth floor, and their apartment is about a hundred meters east of the patio. Bucky shuts the lid on the grill and jogs over to stand underneath him, shielding his eyes as he looks up.

“Yeah?”

“You want me to just throw the cooler down to you?”

“Are you stupid?”

“Speed things up,” Steve calls back, shrugging like he knows the justification is flimsy at best. He just wants to drop the cooler off the building for fun. He hasn’t got a good reason.

“Fine, drop it.”

Bucky says it without thinking that Steve will actually follow through, but Steve wasn’t kidding — he leans over and picks up the cooler. He’d actually brought it out to the balcony with him already. Steve’s idea of efficiency is fucking  _ reckless, _ sometimes. No —  _ all _ the time. Steve doesn’t see the need for any more discussion before he drops it over the rails.

It’s a small cooler, and despite the fact that it’s full of condiments and ice, Bucky catches it without any trouble and brings it gently to the ground. Six floors above him, Bucky can hear Lincoln laughing and cheering. That explains a lot — Lincoln must have put Steve up to that little stunt.

“Wait a few minutes before you open any of those sodas, Buck!”

“Anything else?” he shouts.

“You want the kid?”

Bucky overhears the elated, high-pitched response of, “Yeah, throw me!”

“Steven Grant, don’t you throw my boy off that balcony,” he laughs warningly. Steve has lifted Lincoln up a few inches and is holding him close to the rails — not close enough to pose a risk. Just close enough to irk Bucky. “It’ll be the last thing you ever do.”

“You sure?”

“I think I might have changed my mind anyway!” Lincoln screams, glancing down toward his Papa. “Dad — dad, don’t throw me, because — put me down, because Papa would probably get mad.”

“Tell your  _ dad _ to jump!” Bucky goads him, grinning hopefully. It’s only about sixty feet, and the grass is springy. Steve  _ could _ do it — he’s never had occasion to (not off that particular balcony, anyway) — but he  _ could. _

“No!” Lincoln giggles nervously. “That is definitely not safe, Papa! Nobody jump off the building, please!”

Listen to that: some common fucking sense, out of his own son.

Bucky smiles, feeling the happiest he’s ever felt — like a good father, for once. Feeling  _ proud.  _ And he  _ should _ be proud. After all, he’s accomplished the impossible: he has managed to raise Steve Rogers’ son to be less of an idiot than Steve Rogers himself.

* * *

 

Lincoln makes good on his promise to put hot dogs on his burger. If this were any other kid in the world, Bucky would never allow it. He’d seen his sisters and Clint’s kids do strange, disgusting things with their food, and they’re usually all talk and play. The food ends up going to waste, which Bucky positively cannot abide, but Lincoln never fails to commit. He had once poured orange juice over his Cinnamon Toast Crunch instead of milk, and because Bucky tries not to raise his voice, he had opted to sit down at the table and stare at his son until he’d eaten all of it. Lincoln ate it without paying much attention to the fact that Bucky was there at all, and then the little bastard had asked for another glass of orange juice and more cereal. A burger with two hot dogs on it is par for the course, with him. Bucky only asks that he eats his carrots before getting more hot dogs.

It’s actually Bucky that ends up wasting food; maybe it was Lincoln’s mention of dry sponges, but he gags on the first bite of his eggplant, stomach roiling with a familiar and  _ very _ specific sort of nausea, and throws it all onto Steve’s plate. (When it comes to most food, he can use Steve like a garbage can. If something in their refrigerator is on the verge of turning, Bucky just cooks it and and puts it in front of him, and in a few minutes, it disappears. He’s not sure where Steve puts it all.)

“You make the only eggplant I’ve ever liked,” Steve laughs as Bucky takes the liberty of rearranging the food on his plate to make room for his discarded vegetables. Bucky hopes Steve doesn’t mind the fact that he also loses an entire hot dog in the exchange. “Oh my God, that’s amazing,” he says around a mouthful of the eggplant. “What’s on this? Is that the gouda Sam bought before he found out he hated it?”

“Yep.”

“Are you sure you don’t want half of—”

“Oh, hell no.”

“You didn’t like it?”

“I think it was just the texture that got me. My stomach is — well, I’m definitely pregnant.”

“Aw, baby,” Steve grins, reaching over to touch Bucky’s belly, patting it almost teasingly. “Gosh, I hope we don’t have one in there that won’t touch a vegetable. We got lucky with Lincoln — he cleaned those carrots up. Looks like this one is a big fan of, uh…” he tips his head inquisitively as he checks out the contents of Bucky’s plate. Bucky had indulged himself and gotten creative with his food. “Huh, dangerously undercooked burgers and burnt hot dogs.”

“That’s how I always eat that stuff, Steve. You like undercooked hot dogs and...I don’t know what to call that burger. A waste of beef.”

“God, how much mustard did you put on that? That’s about a  _ cup.” _

“It’s mayonnaise, too.”

“Oh God,” Steve laughs, rubbing his eyes. “We’re back on this mayonnaise thing, really? Lincoln — when you were in Papa’s belly, I had to keep three jars of mayo in the fridge just to keep him happy, you know that?”

Lincoln meets that information with a shrug. He’s staring at the baseball in his lap, fidgeting with the last of the bread from his hot dog bun.

“Okay everybody, I think it’s probably time to go and play baseball now.”

“You want to let me and Papa finish eating, or what?”

“It’s going to get dark soon, though, so we have actually got to hurry up.”

“Lincoln, it’s not even half past three and it’s summer,” Steve reminds him. “The sun’s not going anywhere for a few hours.”

“I’m so bored from sitting at this table that I am going to die, Dad,” he says bluntly, casting a longing stare at his bat, which Bucky had made him put under his chair during dinner.

Bucky snorts. “Well, alright you little drama queen, let’s go play some baseball.” He takes Steve’s hot dog with him.

* * *

 

Usually, baseball wouldn’t stand a chance of constituting a fun activity with just three people to a game, but there’s very little that makes Lincoln happier. All they have to do is take turns throwing the ball, letting him hit it, and returning it to whoever’s pitching next. Lincoln occasionally likes to take a turn at the “mound,” but that never turns out to be too interesting for anyone: Steve and Bucky usually end up forgetting to miss every now and then, and it never takes long before they start trying to show each other up, and then another blistered Rawlings is lost in the woods, unrecognizably maimed. It’s better for everyone if Lincoln sticks to his preferences and stays at the plate.

This particular evening, they’ve assumed their usual positions, with Bucky pitching, Lincoln batting, and Steve doing what he does best — running back and forth across their imaginary outfield, playing every other conceivable position and jumping to grab pop-flies out of the air like a dog with a tennis-ball launcher.

Steve notices immediately that there’s a lot less chatter than usual out of Lincoln — most of the time, he’s shit-talking them endlessly, issuing brazen challenges to Bucky and — because he doesn’t  _ quite _ understand the point of baseball yet — cheering for Steve to catch the ball. But right now, the kid’s so focused on barreling up that he’s hardly let himself blink, and he’s swinging  _ hard.  _ Steve’s not sure if he ought to be glad his son’s taking something so seriously and applying himself, or if he should read Lincoln’s persistent little frown as something more than concentration.

Eventually, Lincoln’s streak of good clean hits comes to an end. He’s gotten comfortable sweeping the bat upward to hit Bucky’s weightlessly slow 12 to 6, right as it plummets downward, but now Bucky is testing him with a few screwballs, and Lincoln’s muscles are never quite prepared to react when the ball breaks the other way. He looks like he’s getting pretty frustrated.

“Alright, _ Hubell, _ lighten up,” Steve chuckles admonishingly as Bucky throws another with a self-congratulatory smirk. “You’re pissing him off.”

“He’ll figure it out. If he hits one, he’ll hit ‘em all.”

“Used to be so sweet when you strutted around the diamond like a fuckin’ tomcat,” Steve muses under his breath, knowing Bucky can still hear him, even from a few feet away.

“What, and now I’m just antagonizing my five-year-old?”

“Well. Yeah.”

Bucky throws another that drifts so sharply to the inside that Lincoln panics and jumps back, then calls the ball a few choice names. “Not bad for an old man, though, huh?”

“Especially not a pregnant old man.”

“Don’t ever call me that again,” Bucky grimaces instantly.

Steve looks back toward the Facility’s exit as Sam strolls out into the sunshine, waving to catch their attention.

“Jeez, he’s wearing that Howling Commandos shirt I bought him...must still feel bad about that little accident you guys had earlier,” Bucky sighs.

“You know he doesn’t  _ really _ hate that shirt, Buck. He just likes to fuck with you.”

“Am I still in trouble?” Sam shouts, slowing his pace hesitantly.

“No,” Bucky calls back. “That was all Steve’s fault.”

“Can I have two of these hot dogs?”

“Go for it.”

Sam manages to shove one out of two in his mouth on the way over to them, carrying the other casually along with him. Lincoln runs to meet him almost desperately, holding his arms out and up so that Sam knows he expects to be picked up. Sam seems happy to oblige.

“You out here winning?”

“No, Papa is being a stupid jerk and he won’t let me just hit the ball.”

“I cannot believe him,” Sam says seriously, shaking his head as Lincoln catches him by the wrist imploringly and takes a bite of his hot dog. Sam passes Steve and Bucky a wide-eyed, open-mouthed look of offense, and Bucky cringes visibly and mouths,  _ Sorry.  _ Steve throws back his head and laughs, applauding. Sam should have known better than to trust Lincoln that close to a bite of food. “You know what? I’m gonna go have a word with him,” Sam promises, and sets Lincoln down. He takes one more big bite of his food, and then passes the rest off to his godson. Sam jogs over, reaching out for a congratulatory handshake, but Bucky pulls him insistently into a hug. “Damn, man, it’s about time. Congratulations — seriously.”

“Well, I guess we’ve probably got you to thank.”

“Yeah, I was about to ask when you two had the time, but then I realized I was probably babysitting. Hey, look, I’m sorry about what happened earlier — I didn’t know he—”

Bucky laughs incredulously. “You didn’t start that conversation — that was just  _ Dad _ forgetting his kid’s got good ears and quiet feet.”

“Oh, we’re blaming it all on Dad?”

“Of course we are.”

“Oh, good.”

Steve throws his hands up.

Sam watches Lincoln take a few practice swings with the bat, like he’s wondering if the streak of misses might be his own fault. “Well, looks like he’s over it.”

But Steve can’t help but notice that his son’s jaw is a little tighter than usual, his eyes a little narrower, and his shoulders are tensed with concentration. “I’m not so sure.”

“Hey, um — Sam, could you maybe throw me the ball? Because Papa was really not playing fair earlier.”

Sam catches Lincoln’s overhanded pitch with a half-smile. “Oh, and you think I play fair, huh?”

As soon as Lincoln is occupied with Sam, Bucky pulls Steve a few feet away, taking out his phone and pulling up his messages.

“Bruce says he’ll be free in about an hour and a half, if we want to stop by. Get everything checked out.”

“Do you want me to come with you? Does he wanna do an ultrasound?” Steve asks hopefully, eager to hear a heartbeat, even if the rest of their new baby still hasn’t grown beyond an abstract patch of grey.

“Yeah, he’s got the equipment out — do you want to come? We’d have to find someone to watch Lincoln—”

“Up to you — I mean, it’s not  _ my _ bare ass on a table—”

The back of Bucky’s prosthetic connects lazily with Steve’s ribs. “I don’t know. Maybe you should stay with him. Keep him company.”

“Yeah,” he sighs, watching Lincoln miss yet another pitch from Sam and throw the ball back morosely. “I should probably explain this to him a little more...thoroughly.”

“I thought we did a pretty good job this morning.”

“Well, look at him, Buck, I don’t think he’s taking this well.”

“He’s okay, Steve. He’ll work through it on his own.”

“Buck, it’s a big change—”

“It’s not that big of a deal, sweetheart, believe me.”

“I just think he might need a little extra—”

“Look, you were an only child—”

“So, what, I don’t know when my son might need—?”

“No, but  _ you’ve _ never been through what he’s—”

“Oh, and I guess you just said  _ yes, ma’am,  _ when your ma told you she was—”

“My ma didn’t tell me shit, Steve, I was  _ five—” _

“Yeah,  _ great _ example of—”

“Steve, come on, don’t rag on my ma.”

“I’m not, but parenting has  _ changed  _ since the twenties, Buck—”

Bucky starts to cut him off yet again, but his retort is interrupted by an irritated sigh as the baseball connects solidly with his thigh. He tosses it back to Sam and leads Steve a little further away, lowering his voice. Steve has to tear his sympathetic gaze away from Lincoln, who’s staring dejectedly at the lawn, scuffing it with his little tennis shoes. “Look, I know you’re worried,” Bucky continues quietly. “But he cannot be happy  _ all _ the time. It’s not our job to make things perfect and easy for him every time he has a little trouble getting used to something new. We’ve gotta let him work things out on his own.”

“But not  _ this!” _

“Steve, we told him we’re having a baby, what else do you think we should do?”

“I think we should try to make him feel—” Steve stumbles, realizing he’s backing himself into a corner. It gives Bucky just long enough finish the sentence for him.

“Make him feel better about it? Tell him how amazing it’s going to be?”

“I don’t know.”

“We gave him the facts. Let him work out his own feelings.”

“I want to  _ know _ how he feels.”

“Why? It’s going to change  _ every _ day. He’s got a lot to think about. And you know what? It doesn’t really matter how he feels, because it’s not going to change anything.”

“Don’t say it doesn’t  _ matter—” _

“It doesn’t. And the older he gets, it’s gonna matter less and less. Let’s just let him be mad about this for a minute. He’ll live.”

“I don’t want him to hate the idea of—”

“Steve, I hate to break it to you, but that is  _ part of it. _ That’s every little boy who’s ever become a big brother. You spend a little while mad about it, and then you fuckin’ get over it.”

Steve sighs. Maybe Bucky’s right, however profoundly Steve’s gut tells him to take this into his own hands and do something to make Lincoln feel — he doesn’t know  _ how _ he wants Lincoln to feel. A little voice in the back of his head that’s almost pitifully desperate whispers,  _ Like he’s still our baby.  _ But there’s no need to tell Bucky about that — looks like Bucky had heard that voice long before Steve had even noticed it. He doesn’t mean to be petty, but he does know he’s lost that battle, so he redirects their argument. “It’s — it’s not just that. Buck, there’s  _ so _ much we’ve been keeping from him. I just think—”

“Like what, Steve?”

“Everything,” Steve snaps, knowing he’s being hyperbolic and hoping it’ll at least make an impression, even if it pisses Bucky off in the interim. “If you really wanted him to have the chance to — whatever you want — make up his own mind about things, work through stuff, why is there a fucking  _ gag order _ on our entire lives before 2017?”

“He knows enough about that.”

“He has no frame of reference for the outside world, Buck! He doesn’t know that he’s any different than any other kid. He doesn’t know when we were born, he doesn’t know why he doesn’t have any other family, he doesn’t know he’s  _ enhanced _ , for fuck’s sake—”

“We can’t tell him  _ everything, _ Steve, he’s five years old—”

“But we  _ do _ have to be honest with him. He’s going to find out one of these days, and what’s it going to do to him when he finds out we lied about—”

“Parents lie to their children all the time,” Bucky says, each word slow and measured and separate, as if he knows it’s going to be hard for Steve to comprehend.

“That doesn’t make it right.”

“So we tell him about the war? About the fact that his parents are queers and half the world thinks queers shouldn’t even exist? Or have children?”

“That’s  _ changed,  _ Bucky—”

“Or that those other queers have to adopt their kids? And then what? He thinks he’s adopted, we tell him he’s not, he asks how the fuck he got here, and then what do we do?”

“We can find a way around telling him about Hy—”

“But we’re going to have to. One day. And you know how that conversation is going to start? With where he came from. I’m trying  _ not _ to lie to him, Steve. But that means we need to wait before we tell him about—”

“What about Ruth?”

Bucky’s face flushes with anger and his mouth opens, probably to say something deservedly harsh, but before Steve has to hear the words, Bucky’s right hand flies toward his face. For a split second, Steve is pretty sure he’s going to catch a hard punch in the nose, but Bucky’s hand twists at the last moment, palm out, and Steve doesn’t feel the sharp impact that he hears.

That was the  _ baseball. _

And it had come in  _ fast.  _ If Bucky hadn’t caught it, it probably would have been enough to bloody even Steve’s nose. One glance at Lincoln’s face as it changes from anger to guilt tells both of them that it certainly wouldn’t have been an accident. Sam must have seen it fly toward them, and he looks equal parts shocked and furious. That was intentional.

_ Goddamnit, _ Lincoln’s feeling so lost about all this that he’s actually lashing out, now. They should have been more open with him. He wouldn’t have done that if they hadn’t given him a reason—

Bucky gives Steve a withering look, like he’s read the contents of his predictably bleeding heart from one quick glance at his eyes. He slaps the baseball heavily into Steve’s hand. “Stay here,” Bucky snaps.

“We should—”

“What, do this together?”

“Yes—”

“No.”

“Bucky—”

“Steve, you’ll just end up apologizing to him for something  _ he _ chose to do.”

“He’s upset!”

“And he’s gonna be more upset. Still doesn’t get to act like that.”

Steve shuts his mouth. Bucky might be right. Admitting that to himself makes Steve feel like someone’s put rocks in his chest and thrown him into deep water, but  _ maybe _ Bucky is right.

“Sit down.”

Bucky’s voice as he points toward the chairs back on the patio is just as painful for Steve to hear as it is frightening to his poor kid. Lincoln freezes, regretting what he did more and more as the consequences close in.

_ “Now, _ Lincoln.”

“Papa, I, um—”

“Go wait for me in a chair.”

“But—”

Bucky’s back is turned toward Steve, so he doesn’t see whatever look he gives Lincoln that silences him so quickly and makes him hurry back to the patio. Lincoln drops his bat on the ground on the way over, and Steve can see the change in his posture and the way his head is hanging low, the way his hands have pressed to his eyes, the way his feet are marching blindly, clumsily toward his destination.

God, he hates it when Lincoln cries.

“Sam, I’m so sorry about that,” Bucky sighs, turning briefly back toward the grounds.

“No worries, man, he’s a kid. It happens. If he keeps on acting up, pull out the big guns: tell him Uncle Sam is disappointed.”

“Thanks.”

And Steve stays right where he is, no more than twenty feet from Sam, but feeling like he’s been abandoned by everyone out in the open ocean. Suddenly, it’s hard to breathe and he’s barely five feet tall. He feels stupid. Guilty. Like a burden, because his son threw a baseball at his face and there goes Bucky to handle it, except Steve doesn’t really  _ want _ it handled—not like this. Lincoln would  _ never _ have done that without a good reason. He’s had a hell of a day,  _ of course _ he’s going to act out. But somewhere, in the logical part of Steve’s brain that’s drowned out by emotion right now, he knows that having a reason for doing something bad doesn’t— _ and shouldn’t _ —mean freedom from consequence. Maybe he and Lincoln both need to learn that.

“Oh, you’re taking that hard, huh?”

“No, he’s—”

“I didn’t mean the part where your son threw a baseball at your face. I mean the other thing.”

“Oh,” Steve says through a sigh that makes his chest ache. He studies the grass, looking anywhere but at his son, hunched over in a chair that’s too big for him and crying, or at Bucky walking purposefully toward him. “Yeah, I guess I am.”

Sam gives him an understanding nod, but something about his face makes Steve wonder if he’d rather laugh. “How many times did you cry when you were five, Steve?”

“I don’t know,” he answers lamely, and then he really thinks about it. “A lot,” he’s forced to admit.

“You ever get in trouble with your mother?”

“Yeah.” And then he laughs. “Couple times.”

Sam smiles, picking up on his understatement. “Me, too. My mom had to whoop me twice a day for a little while.”

“God, I’m glad we don’t do that.”

“Yeah, it’s not the best way to do things, but...you know. You learn,” he laughs. “You’re not used to this, man. If anything, that means you guys have done everything right. You’re not used to him getting yelled at because he hardly ever needs to get yelled at. When I was his age—shit, I was so bad, Steve. This one time, my sister threw away this picture of a car I drew. You know what I did? I  _ cut off one of her braids. _ Oh, my mom  _ busted _ my ass. Lincoln’s doing fine, Steve. I was getting into fights at school and everything.”

“Yeah, I got turned over my mom’s knee for that one a few times.”

“And  _ then _ lectured. Once you were already crying, right? Insult to injury.”

“Yep.”

“Why’d you get into all those fights?”

“I don’t know,” he sighs. “Guys would pick on me. Pick on other kids. God, I hated—just made me see red.”

“Sounds pretty justified.”

“Maybe.”

“Did that matter to your mom?”

“Not exactly,” Steve smiles. “She was pretty sympathetic if they started it. But if I started it...well, she could be pretty scary.”

“Well, I’ll bet she knew you had a good reason for starting it. She probably knew the other boys were fucking with you, and she probably knew your heart was in the right place. But she whooped you anyway, didn’t she?”

Steve suddenly finds himself picturing his mom’s face, thin and fragile, with wide, soulful eyes, mouth narrowed to a thin, severe line, a frown on her brow, cheeks cherry-red with frustration. Back then, he’d been terrified to see her like that. He  _ hated _ getting in trouble with her—especially with how hard she worked, how tired she was when she came home, how kind she usually was. “Yeah,” he finally answers, and the beautiful, angry face he’s imagining stays just the same, but he starts to understand the expression it bears just a little differently. “She sure did.”

“So…” Sam smiles, strolling a little closer and leaning in. “Is it too soon to say that was a fuckin’ awesome throw?”

Steve laughs before he can stop himself. “Little soon, yeah.”

“Okay. But it was. I’m just saying.”

* * *

 

Discipline with Lincoln is mercifully easy.

He knows right from wrong, even if he experiences occasional lapses in his ability to exercise that knowledge. Given a minute or two, he’s already mad at himself, and Bucky doesn’t have to be all that mad at him.

Still, all they’ve had to deal with in the past was some vindictive property damage and a few harmless fibs. Lincoln had  _ never _ tried to hurt anyone, not purposely, knowingly.

Bucky had known it would happen one day. It was a universal challenge for every parent with every child. He’s just glad it was Steve that Lincoln had tried to hurt. That doesn’t scare Bucky so badly. If it had been another kid— _ fuck,  _ Bucky doesn’t care to think about it. Steve would have had to talk him down from breaking their agreement to abstain from corporal punishment.

He walks back to the patio slowly, giving Lincoln a little more time to cry and think. By the time he drags a chair over and sits down directly in front of his son, Lincoln’s weeping has escalated to wracking sobs, and he won’t uncover his eyes. He’s either terrified of Bucky or deeply ashamed of himself. Bucky hopes he’s a little bit of both. He gives him another sixty seconds to cry before he speaks.

“You messed up real bad, buddy.”

Lincoln cries harder, curling forward. Bucky takes a few paper towels off the table, only a little messy from their late lunch, and sets them in Lincoln’s lap, just in case he composes himself enough to mop up his runny nose and teary eyes.

“Why did you do that?”

Lincoln doesn’t answer.

“Lincoln, why did you throw that baseball at your dad’s face?”

Still, no answer.

“You know you could have hurt him.”

“I  _ didn’t—” _ is Lincoln’s barely audible reply. “I-I  _ didn’t—”  _ he tries again, with no further success.

Bucky can hardly believe what he’s hearing. His son knows better than to lie right now. He absolutely knows how much worse he could make this for himself. He’ll give him precisely one chance to tell the truth. He leans forward toward the other chair, gripping the armrests on either side of Lincoln, who tries desperately to make himself smaller. “Lincoln, did you just lie to me?” he asks softly.

“No!” he wails shrilly. “I—I just didn’t—I just didn’t mean to—I’m sorry! I—I wasn’t trying to—to hit Daddy. I’m sorry,” he cries, unable to force out another word.

Bucky is shocked. “You  _ didn’t mean to? _ Lincoln, I don’t think that’s true.”

“I—no, Papa.” And now Bucky has to really work to understand him. He’s hysterical. “I’m really sorry.”

Bucky’s face falls. “Oh.” He leans back into his own chair, suddenly understanding his son’s vague, frightened admission. “You weren’t trying to hit Daddy. You were trying to hit me, huh?”

Lincoln is too upset to talk for the next few minutes. But Bucky makes himself be patient. Eventually, Lincoln will get worn out and he’ll start to calm down. Then, they can finish talking. Until then, Bucky has a little time to formulate a response. Finally, when he’s just about cried himself sick, he starts taking some deeper breaths, reaches for the paper towels, and scrubs clumsily at his face.

“Why’d you do that?” Bucky asks, careful to keep his voice neutral.

“I don’t know,” Lincoln says pitifully, as the tears make a weak comeback.

“Were you just upset because you couldn’t hit the ball?” Bucky asks, purposefully suggesting an answer which he knows to be incorrect, hoping it will help Lincoln narrow down the options and discover the actual reason — which Bucky, of course, is pretty sure he could guess. He thinks it’s probably better to let Lincoln work it out on his own, though.

“No—I just—I didn’t sleep really good...maybe...”

“Are you sure that’s all it was? Seems like a pretty silly reason to get that mad.”

“I—I was just kind of  _ mad _ , okay? I was just really mad and I don’t even know why.”

“Well,” Bucky prompts. “What was happening when you got really mad?”

“You and Daddy—you guys were talking.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And you guys weren’t even playing anymore, which is what we just came out here to do, and you guys just kind of went away.”

“Is that all?”

“And—I thought you guys—I thought you guys were probably—probably, that you guys were talking about the—the—”

“What?”

“Um, the new baby.”

And Bucky had thought Lincoln was all done crying, but as soon as he gets those words out, he finds a fresh reserve of tears and lets loose all over again.

“Ohh,” Bucky says, as if it’s some kind of epiphany.

“You guys didn’t even ask me!”

Bucky holds back a sad smile, trying to keep his expression neutral. Lincoln has  _ always _ hated being left out of anything he considers a big decision, whether it’s actually a decision or not. Bucky thinks about a day when he was three, on one of the first warm days of the year, when they’d made plans to go out and play in the sprinkler and swim. Unexpectedly, the temperature had plummeted and rain clouds had rolled in just as they were getting dressed to go out and enjoy the sunshine. Lincoln hadn’t thrown a fit about the missed opportunity for swimming — he was  _ far _ more upset that no one had talked to him before making that sudden change in the weather.

“Baby, this wasn’t a decision that Daddy and I made behind your back. It just happened. We were surprised, too.”

“But you knew when you got home and you didn’t even tell me! And we ate breakfast and everything.”

Bucky doesn’t have an easy answer for that. Finally, he decides on the truth. “I wasn’t sure how to tell you. I was nervous about telling you. I guess I was a little scared.”

“But — no — you don’t get...you don’t get nervous and scared, because you — you’re a grown-up.”

Bucky laughs. “Grown-ups get scared.”

“What…? No.”

“Yeah, they do. Remember when we watched  _ The Lion King? _ And that — that kid scared his dad really bad by doing something dangerous?” Bucky had fallen asleep during that one, so the comparison turns out a little clumsier than he would have hoped.

“Yeah, but — um, his name was actually Simba—”

“Grown-ups can get scared. This morning I was a little scared that you’d be mad about the new baby. I was afraid to tell you.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.” Bucky pauses, Steve’s stern voice ringing in his head,  _ That’s not good enough  _ and  _ You’re going to have to do a lot better than ‘I don’t know.’  _ Steve hates that answer. “Having a new baby in the house is a big change. I was afraid it might upset you.”

“The baby part...that is pretty much okay with me.”

“So what made you mad?”

“Um...well, you know when Dad said—how when I was a baby and I was still in your belly, how I made you eat a lot of mayonnaise?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I just sort of remembered that I was also a baby, which I knew already.”

“But?”

“But now I’m five.”

Bucky waits, watching Lincoln fidget with the paper towel as he tries to parse out a complex, difficult thought.

“And it’s just like...new babies are actually like  _ more kids, _ kind of.”

Bucky keeps himself from smiling, but it’s a close call. “Yes, they are.”

“And kids all, you know...grow  _ up,  _ so it’s just...like, I was pretty happy about having a new baby, I guess, and then I just remembered that it was going to get bigger and then be like me, and then I just did want you to have…”

Bucky waits again, but Lincoln’s struggle goes beyond finding the right words, now. He knows what he wants to say, but saying it to his Papa is another matter. Luckily, he’s already led Bucky right to the answer, and it’s the universal fear of all older siblings. Bucky had become a big brother, too, and he remembers that fear even after ninety-nine years. “Were you scared that the new baby was going to replace you?”

“I guess,” Lincoln shrugs, exhausted and glum. “Because...I am just not sure about another five-year-old, Papa, because if we could just have you and me and Daddy  _ plus _ a new baby, then that’s really okay, but two five-year-olds is just a lot.”

“Lincoln, when the new baby is five, you will be ten.”

Lincoln pauses, undertaking a moment of deep, silent thought, then hangs his head in embarrassment. “Oh, yeah.”

“We’re never going to replace you, Lincoln. You’re irreplaceable,” he promises. “And I love you.”

Lincoln’s bottom lip looks like it desperately wants to poke out, but he’s putting up a brave fight against another bout of crying. “I love you too, Papa. Plus...um, I am really, really sorry that I threw the baseball at your head. And that it almost hit Dad. I’m sorry I did that.”

“I forgive you. But I want you to apologize to your Dad, too.”

“Okay.”

“And Sam.”

“Is Sam mad at me?” Lincoln looks horrified.

“He’s disappointed.”

“Oh, no.” He rubs at his eyes and cheeks with the paper towel again, although no amount of wiping up tears makes him look any less miserable. His face is a splotchy, puffy mess. “Can I just have...Papa, can I just have some time to think about this new baby thing? Because talking about it right now kind of gets me upset.”

Bucky nods. “You take your time. I’ll leave you alone about it, and you can let me know when you’re ready to talk. Deal?” He extends his hand.

“Deal,” Lincoln agrees, giving Bucky’s hand a pitiful shake with damp, chilly fingers.

“Um...Papa?”

“Yes?”

“How mad at me are you...for the baseball thing?”

“I’m not mad. I understand why you did that.”

“So...I’m not in trouble?”

“Lincoln...” Bucky almost allows himself a humorless laugh, but with a little effort, he manages to keep his voice steady and hold his son’s gaze. If he backs down, Lincoln may remember the incident, but the larger lesson about action and consequence won’t have the same impact. “You are still in  _ a lot  _ of trouble.”

**Author's Note:**

> Well, hello! Sorry I had to disappear on you guys for a while. I had a very big week at work and at home. I snagged a big scary promotion at work, that will mean...drumroll...a third floor office and a bigger budget for my literacy outreach endeavors?! Yikes! So, I made the rounds last week, visiting all the child care centers I'll be providing materials and programming for, and had one lady who made my week absolutely hellish...because she apparently doesn't believe that men are capable of being good Early Literacy librarians, and another lady who was very uncomfortable because she "could tell by my voice that I'm gay." Siiigh. But then I got to go out of town to this amazing conference on homelessness and libraries, and I got to meet the folks behind the incredible film, "The Public." That was awesome!
> 
> In between, I was trying to wrap up this here nearly 10K one-shot, all while very carefully drafting the first five chapters of "Jump the Picket Fence," the next big installment in this series. Whoo! So, sorry for the delay and the lack of Tumblr posts - glad to be back!
> 
> Love, hugs, and all that mushy bullshit,  
> Zack <3


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